


Guilty Until Proven Innocent

by VincentMeoblinn



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal, Enemies to Lovers, Frottage, Kidnapping, M/M, Murder, Mutual Masturbation, Oral, Roughing It, Rutting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2018-01-06 14:39:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is hunting for Moriarty's last remaining operative, an ex-military doctor and sniper named John Watson. When he finds him he is confused to learn that he is overwhelmed with guilt and determined to punish himself with solitude.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

It had taken Sherlock a mere five months to sort out most of Moriarty’s organization, but there was one lose string that had hidden itself away. Captain John Hamish Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusilier, had been deep in Moriarty’s organization but he’d disappeared the same day Sherlock had faked his death. Sherlock had managed to track him down to a small town where he’d last used his credit card, but that was the last time the former army doctor had been seen.

Two years had passed since the last Watson sighting outside of Cairngorms National Park, and Sherlock would have dropped it and let the man vanish if it weren’t for the fact that his actual role in Moriarty’s organization was a complete mystery. He knew the man had been seen numerous times with both Moriarty and Moran, but he had no idea in what capacity. He was a wild card. In the mean time Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft all thought Sherlock was dead and he was surprised to find that he missed them… even Mycroft with his infernal meddling.

Finally he simply decided to start searching the entire area around the last scene of contact. Based on the purchases, namely a great deal of survival gear, the man had been planning on hiking into the woods. It was possible he’d gone in there and died, which would explain why he’d never re-emerged or shown up somewhere else. If that were the case then Sherlock would locate his corpse and finally move on with his life. He was looking forward to solving a few more cases, or if the criminal world had completely lapsed with Moriarty’s death then he was planning on taking up beekeeping.

Sherlock started out at dawn with a pack on his back and his phone fully charged. He had a map of the area memorized, however Watson was clearly avoiding the tourist areas despite the fact that they would be perfect for a man to vanish yet still have interaction. Instead he must have been using the more heavily wooded areas to survive, so Sherlock set his attention on the rivers and streams, which were Watson’s sole water source if he had decided this was a good permanent hiding spot. Sherlock left from Watson’s most likely entry point and headed for the nearest river, intending on following it until he saw sign of a camp. He had no doubt that he’d find the camp, even if it were two years old.

Two more years of searching passed with Sherlock taking frequent trips into the forest park and searching out all the water sources. At this point it had become an obsession. Watson was an enigma wrapped in a riddle. His military file showed him to have a strong moral compunction while his association with Moriarty proved that he was a willing criminal. Moran had been his CO for a period of time in which he’d apparently saved his life when the Colonel had been shot. When the organization failed, instead of latching onto Moran and running Watson had packed up and vanished.

Even Moran had been searching for Watson without any luck when Sherlock had finally cornered him. While he’d been tying the man up and bagging evidence to sit next to him on the stoop of the nearest constabulary, Moran had gone off about how he had to find ‘John’ and slit his throat. Apparently he felt that Watson owed him an explanation for flying the coop. When Sherlock had questioned Moran about Watson, suggesting that he take the wayward ex-Captain a message for him. Moran went off for nearly half an hour about Watson, ranting about his ‘superior attitude’ and how he had wrapped Moriarty around his little finger. It sounded to Sherlock like it had been a sort of love triangle, but when he asked that outright Moran had laughed and said that Watson was straight. After that Moran had calmed down and refused to say anything else and Sherlock had left more confused than he’d shown up. Never had he come across someone so utterly _baffling_ and he’d never even met the man!

Finally, Sherlock found the elusive John H. Watson. He stumbled across the camp after getting lost when a storm blew in deceptively fast and Sherlock had stubbornly kept walking. Except it wasn’t a camp. It was a home.

Watson had created a very well hidden home in the side of a hill. Two pine trees on either side of the wooden door practically hid it from view and grass and various shrubs grew over the top and around it. Only the wear pattern from him walking around in front of his home and the smoke stack out the top gave a clear clue that there was anything there. Around the other side of the hill, behind his home, he had hung a hammock and built a narrow shed out of sticks and bark for smoking meat. The shed was well hidden as well, but the hammock lying out in the open showed how comfortable he’d gotten in his hide-away. Of course, this deep in the woods who would even notice a grey-roped old hammock if it wasn’t in their way?

A more careful inspection showed a few concealed ‘windows’, which were closed up against the recent storm. An overhang with vines growing down it kept them well hidden even when open. He wondered if they had any kind of glass on the other side, but was more interested in locating the missing man himself. Sherlock carefully climbed a tree and pulled branches in around him to wait for his prey.

Night fell and Sherlock shifted to relieve the numbness in his limbs. He was just starting to reach the point where he _needed_ to move when a subtle movement caught his attention. Sherlock leaned forward to see that something was moving just outside one of the windows. As he pulled out a pair of binoculars to get a look at it he didn’t even notice the mild scuffing noises. The cold feel of slim steel being pressed to his throat, however, was quite obvious.

“Don’t move,” A gruff voice hissed in his ear, the breath stirring his hair.

“Clearly.”

“You’re Sherlock Holmes.”

“Astute of you, are you always this brilliant?”

“You’re supposed to be dead.”

“You’re supposed to be a noble soldier.”

That was met with silence and then an order to put his arms behind his back.

“I’ll fall.”

“I’ll keep you safe.”

“You expect me to trust Moriarty’s little flirt?” Sherlock scoffed.

The man behind him snorted and then pressed the knife close enough to nick his throat.

“Or I could just slit your throat? As you’re likely aware, your blood won’t be the first on my hands.”

Sherlock sighed and let the man slip his backpack off. It went clattering down to the forest floor and Sherlock put his hands behind his back and made fists.

“Relax your hands. I’m an old hat at this, you know?”

Sherlock sighed, and then hissed in frustration as a plastic tie wrapped around his wrists and pulled quite tight.

“My circulation…”

“Doctor, remember?” Watson interrupted, and then began to search Sherlock.

Since they were up in a tree and one of his hands was occupied holding a knife to Sherlock’s throat, the man was forced to conform to Sherlock’s torso and frisk him rather brusquely. His hands reached into Sherlock’s pockets, bumping his bits and cupping his bottom before searching every crease on his trousers and shirt for hidden pockets. He tossed Sherlock’s pocket contents onto the ground as he found them. Sherlock was alarmed to feel a hard lump pressed to his backside and even more alarmed when Watson leaned in and _smelled_ his neck.

“Could you avoid fondling me?” Sherlock asked, “I’m married to my work.”

“Bounty hunter?” Watson wondered as he shifted away from Sherlock finally.

“Hardly,” Sherlock replied in disgust.

“Sure you aren’t,” Watson snorted, and then grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder and tipped him backwards.

Sherlock was rather proud of himself for not screaming as he fell to what was surely going to be at _least_ a severe injury, but then he hit ropes and bounced, flipped, and face-planted on the ground beneath the hammock. There was a bit of a scramble above him and then a chuckling Watson, who had landed on the opposite side of the bouncing hammock, joined him on the ground.

“How did you move that without me hearing you?” Sherlock asked as soon as he got his breath back.

“Soldier, remember?”

“Your witty repertoire is overwhelming me.”

“They don’t call me Three Continents Watson for nothing,” Watson laughed and pulled Sherlock to his feet. He was kind enough to brush the filth off of him, “There’s a drop inside the door. You’ll have to jump it. The ladder will be far too awkward with your hands tied. Brace yourself.”

Watson opened the tiny door and Sherlock’s head was pressed down to avoid knocking it on the four-foot tall door. Sherlock shuffled awkwardly forward and jumped blindly into the darkness ahead of him. He bent his knees upon hitting the dirt floor and landed rather well. He stood quickly and turned, seeing his shot at taking Watson out when he climbed down after him, but the man wasn’t the fool he’d originally seemed. Instead of climbing down he jumped, and the glint of light showed he did so with his knife unsheathed in his hand. Sherlock backed up rather than attack. His eyes adjusted as Watson turned him around and led him down a slightly sloping hall. It opened up into a large round room that functioned as a den. To the left was one of the windows and a small low tunnel leading into darkness. Off to the right was a kitchen area where he had a PVC pipe coming into the room through a hole in the wall with a garden hose on the end and bucket beneath it.

“You have running water?”

“A bit, yeah. I’m piped in to a nearby river. Took me three months to lay it.”

“I saw no record of you buying plumbing.”

“Cash and a beard go a long way.”

“Yes, I’ve utilized those methods myself.”

Sherlock stared around himself in the low candlelight and saw a ladder leading up to a loft straight ahead where the bed appeared to be based on the pile of blankets. The two windows on either side of the ‘house’ were covered in mosquito netting secured by staples in the wooden sill. The walls were dirt aside from the windowsills, but there were beams going up that led to rafters and planks that supported the roof. It was surprisingly dry and comfortable, if a bit warm from the windows being closed. Speaking of windows, the distraction had been a baseball cap being stuck out of one of the windows where he had pulled aside the mosquito netting and opened it from within to make a rather obvious lure.

“Obvious,” Sherlock sighed, “You have a back door, I’m assuming?”

“In case of emergency. I almost couldn’t get it open, it’s never used,” Watson pointed towards the back beneath the loft where a bench with blankets thrown over it had been shoved aside revealing a trap door propped open with a stick and a long, dark tunnel, “There’s a kind of basement-door mess with dirt and plants going over it. In fact, I need to fix a few things up right away, including that, so you’re going to have to sit tight.”

That said, Sherlock found himself secured to the bench with more zip ties while Watson slipped away to repair his home. Sherlock immediately set about attempting to free himself. It was a tricky thing, but he managed to kick out the wooden peg holding the leg to the bench. The perpendicular piece came free easily and he quickly worked the tie loose, ignoring the pain as his wrists were chaffed and pinched. Finally he had himself free and hurried out the door, keeping an eye out for Watson as he searched for his phone. He found it. In a pan of water on the ground right where he’d thought he’d seen it land.

As he bent over to retrieve it he once more found himself with a knife against his throat.

“You’re dangerous,” The gruff voice stated.

“That is probably the most intelligent thing you’ve ever said.”

“Probably,” He agreed readily, “So the question is, do I kill you outright or string you up somewhere well traveled to be found while I move house?”

“I’ll find you again,” Sherlock assured him, “I won’t stop until all of Moriarty’s men have been brought to justice.”

“I’ve paid for my crimes. I’ve been completely alone for the last three years. You’ve no idea what kind of _madness_ that leads to. I’m ready to tear your clothes off and fuck you senseless _just because you’re a warm body_. I don’t even _prefer_ men, but of course you may actually be the most attractive man I’ve ever met.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock replied awkwardly, “I think.”

“Hmmm,” Watson sighed, “I’m very comfortable here. Settled in. You’ve no idea the work I’ve put into my home, and it _is_ my home. The first I’ve ever had. It will be the last if I have anything to say about it. I intend to die here.”

“Four years.”

“What?”

“It’s been four years since I faked my death, so unless you were counting from your last contact with another human…”

“ _Four_ years? I’ve lost track, I suppose,” Watson said quietly, “You’ve really no idea what it’s like to be so alone.”

“I weep for you,” Sherlock stated dryly, then stiffened in alarm as Watson stepped forward and breathed in his scent again, “Could you not do that?”

“You broke my sofa.”

“That bench was your sofa?”

“I made that myself.”

“I noticed. The craftsmanship was impressive for someone with few tools.”

“It was my third try. It was supposed to be your bed tonight. I’m tired, you know. I’ve been working all day. I was out hunting when you stumbled on my home and inconvenienced me. I didn’t even catch anything so now we’ll only have vegetables for dinner.”

“The storm likely made them hide,” Sherlock stated, hoping to stear the conversation away from his impending rape and then murder. He didn’t even want to know where he was going to ‘sleep’ now that he’d broken his supposed bed.

“Probably.”

“Where do you get your vegetables from?”

“I do some foraging and I also have a couple of fields I’ve planted in areas that were already naturally open. They don’t do spectacularly well, especially since I have to at least _try_ to make them look naturally occurring, but it’s enough for some variety in my diet.”

“What do you hunt with?”

“Bow and arrow. Spear. Fishing rod. Nets.”

“You make everything yourself?”

“Most things, yeah. Even the planks for the roof you saw inside the house. Took me ages to make all of this. It’s finally comfortable, you know? Not fantastic, but comfortable,” Watson said, his voice turning melancholy, “I’ll have to leave now if I don’t want to kill you. Honestly, I don’t even if you are a bit of a berk. I’m not the killer you think I am.”

“Where’s your bathroom?” Sherlock jumped onto the suggesting as he noticed the pressure at that moment.

Watson snorted, “You’re standing in it.”

Sherlock couldn’t look down with the knife pressed to his throat, but he did give a sniff to try to determine if he was standing in refuse. Watson laughed at him.

“I make like the animals. Wherever I’m at is where I go. I have a little hand trowel I carry around in my belt and that’s used to dig a hole and then bury it after.  If you want a specific location you’ll have to clean it up after because that stuff builds up, you know?”

“That makes sense,” Sherlock nodded, “I suppose you found out the hard way?”

“Yeah, you don’t want to know what an outhouse attracts in a place like this.”

“Not really, no,” Sherlock replied, though his mind was running through the possibilities. He needed something to _occupy_ it before he went insane, “Listen, I’m not one for suspense. I’d appreciate it if you made up your mind now.”

Watson sighed and rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder blade. He smelled him again and Sherlock repressed a shudder of disgust. He doubted he smelled all that good after trekking through woods and rain all day. Thankfully, the man leaning against him didn’t appear to smell as foul as someone who lived in the woods might have. In fact, he smelled like pine needles and mint leaves. An odd combination.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, “My request as to your bathroom facilities wasn’t a mere curiosity.”

“Oh! Okay, go ahead. You need to bury anything?”

“No, but turning about 45 degrees to the south would be smart since there’s a bit of a hill here.”

“Right,” Watson replied, then gripped Sherlock’s arm and guided him in a turn.

Sherlock undid his trousers, wondering if the man would watch, but he’d gone back to resting his head on Sherlock’s back and talking softly to himself. Sherlock wondered if his mind was truly gone or if this was the normal presentation of someone isolated from society for four straight years.

“On one hand I kill him and life goes on, but then I’ve got another innocent life on my hands. Don’t want that. Hard enough not to slit my own wrists after I realized all I’d done. On the other hand, he smells nice and I’m lonely and going round the fucking bend. Not like he’s going to cooperate. Won’t just sit around a campfire with me telling tales. Wonder how my teams doing? Not important. I could make a rope and tie him up, keep him like a pet, but that’s impractical and cruel. Besides, he’d escape. He’s clearly resourceful. Gods he smells good. I could just go with him. Turn myself in. Prison would be a nightmare, but I’d survive. I can survive. Hell, with the way I keep staring at him I’d probably be happy to be someones prison bitch. Or have my own. Gods, when did that sort of thing become an option? I really have gone round the bend. Should just kill myself and get it over with. Easy solution, but I’ve never liked the easy way out. Who would take care of Idjit if I killed myself? She’s whelping soon, I can’t leave her. Not alone. Maybe after she whelps? Yes. That’s it. I’ll stall until Idjit whelps and then I’ll either kill myself or turn myself in. Or kill him. Maybe in the mean time I can convince him to… anything… Okay.”

Sherlock had finished up by this point, but was simply standing there with his hand on his dick wondering at the madman behind him. He had to do something and now was the best time. Most people wouldn’t attack with their willies hanging out of their pants and Watson clearly thought so as well as his arm holding the knife had gone from holding steady to resting on Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock’s right hand slipped from his prick to his trousers to hold them up and his left hand came up to grasp Watson’s left hand and twist. They wrestled silently for the knife. Sherlock was used to being quiet because he was often fighting for his life in a situation that meant he oughtn’t to bring more people running. He wasn’t, however, used to his opponents being equally silent. He’d never realized how unnerving it was to have someone grit their teeth and purposely remain quiet even after he got in a shot to their kidneys. Watson was _terrifyingly_ strong, and Sherlock soon found himself on the losing side of their silent tussle. That’s when he had a new thought and pretended to twist his ankle.

Sherlock let out a pained cry and fell backwards (thankfully away from his piss stream) and Watson followed him down with the grace of a martial artist. Sherlock landed with legs splayed and Watson on top of him, pinning his arms above his head as Sherlock had expected. The second he hit the ground Sherlock pictured every erotic image he could think of and waited for his cock to swell while Watson caught his breath above him.

“Bit stupid, that,” Watson informed him.

Sherlock moaned and wriggled beneath him, watching in satisfaction as Watson’s breath caught and his eyes dilated. Instant arousal. The man had been alone too long to care which gender his partner was as long as they were _human._ Sherlock turned his head away as though shamed, letting color flood his cheeks.

“No need to… you’re… I’m not…” Watson was panting, but this time it wasn’t from the excursion. His hips rubbed helplessly against Sherlock’s and the detective hissed in honest pain as the pants chaffed him, “Shit. Sorry. I… gods…”

“Just… take them down,” Sherlock panted, his head still averted, “I need… bloody hell you’re so strong… pinning me down…”

Watson groaned and moved Sherlock’s wrists so he could pin them both with one hand. Sherlock, however, wasn’t just looking away in embarrassment. He was staring at Watson’s knife and categorizing the ways he could reach it when Watson was suitably distracted. The sound of a zip being lowered caught his attention and then he felt his cock pressed against another as Watson began to rut against him, moaning desperately and burying his face against Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock hadn’t anticipated the response he’d have to the touch of another human being. He considered himself asexual, but bisexual and abstaining was likely more accurate. He had a _very_ healthy sex drive, but rarely indulged and had never been touched by another human being. Now he found himself stimulated in a way he’d never felt before and the result was him tossing his head and moaning wantonly, gagging for it as badly as Watson was. Sherlock’s hips bucked up and Watson shifted his legs to get a better angle in. They were dry humping each other desperately and Sherlock felt his bollocks draw up at an alarming rate. He _couldn’t_ come before Watson did. That would completely defeat the purpose of this entire charade; and it was a charade, he had to remember that. Except that there was pleasure sparking down his cock into his bollocks and then up his spine to fire random and distracting signals through the synapses in his brain. Hormones were flooding his system and making him cry out loudly. His cock was leaking profusely and he found himself wondering if it always did so or if the addition of another partner made him somehow _more_ aroused. Logic dictated that Sherlock himself would be the only expert at pleasuring himself, but when a hand came down and wrapped around both his cock and Watson’s the only logic left in Sherlock’s brain was _come, come, come!!_

“Yes, that’s it,” Watson panted, “Come for me you brilliant, dangerous man.”

Sherlock’s body was apparently feeling very obliging, because his back arched and he came in ribbons between them, all but screaming out his release. Watson stroked them together a few more times, but left off before Sherlock became uncomfortable and began to stroke himself fast and hard. Sherlock lay there, basking in dizzying pleasure and breathing in the heady musk of his captors sweat mixed with Sherlock’s sweat and come. It was a beautiful order and he found himself whimpering for more.

“Please, please,” Sherlock moaned, “Please come.”

“Yes!” Watson gasped, and spilled himself across Sherlock’s groin with a grunt of satisfaction and then a drawn out moan as he continued to work his cock through his orgasm. Sherlock felt each pump of semen across his sensitive groin and lay staring up at the forest canopy in awe of such an intimate act.

Watson went limp above him and _this_ was the moment Sherlock had been waiting for, but he hadn’t counted on himself being boneless with pleasure as well. He twitched, a full body movement that had been meant to be him wrenching free of Watson’s barely-there grip and going for the knife, but had turned into a pathetic twitch instead. Watson sighed, apparently content, and nuzzled Sherlock’s neck, pressing a kiss to hit and then licking at the sweat on his neck. Sherlock shivered and gasped as his body tingled and thrummed, his brain pumping out oxytocin in a ludicrous attempt to convince him that this man was his mate and deserved to be cared for.

Sherlock twisted his wrists free and lunged for the knife. Watson’s hand came up and they found themselves struggling as Sherlock attempted to plunge the knife into Watson’s shoulder. Sherlock was using two hands and Watson one, but the man still had the upper hand- quite literally- in that he was _above_ Sherlock. He was also safely away from any groin shots or other defensive motions. Sherlock wrapped his legs around the man’s waist, looking for more leverage, and found their sticky groins being rubbed together. While Sherlock grimaced in disgust, Watson let out a breathy moan and rubbed enthusiastically. Sherlock looked up at his glazed eyes in shock.

“You’re older than I am!” Sherlock exclaimed stupidly.

“Yeah, but I bet it’s been a _lot_ longer for me than it has for you,” Watson panted, his cock hardening between them, “And you’re all nice and slippery, too.”

_You’d be wrong there,_ Sherlock thought, but kept fighting as Watson grunted and brought himself to yet another erection by rutting against Sherlock’s hip. To Sherlock’s absolute disgust his body was starting to respond as well.

“I wanna fuck you,” Watson panted, “Say yes?”

“I’m your prisoner and trying to _stab_ you after having gotten off in a frantic frotting session,” Sherlock pointed out, “Don’t you think we’re beyond checking for consent?”

“Yeah, good point,” Watson replied and then gave a vicious twist with his hand that nearly sprained several of Sherlock’s fingers and left the knife clattering to his chest.

Sherlock hissed in alarm as the point stabbed into him, but it didn’t seem to do much damage. Watson got to the knife first and tossed it aside, crushing his lips to Sherlock’s in a bruising kiss. Sherlock surprised himself by kissing back, his hands tangling in the shaggy locks in an attempt to bruise the man with the force of his ardor. Watson moaned hungrily, hips thrusting eagerly as his cock swelled to full mast.

“I should ask you if you’re clean,” Watson panted, pulling away from the kiss.

“No idea,” Sherlock replied, though it was unlikely since he never shared needles, “Does it matter?”

“Probably not,” Watson breathed, “Gotta go somehow.”

“How romantic,” Sherlock groaned, and then went limp as Watson smeared a hand through their combined come, scooping it up.

Sherlock had a ludicrous moment where he thought the man was going to lick his fingers clean and found himself licking his lips in anticipation, but instead the man reached down and thrust his hand inside Sherlock’s pants. When he pressed against his entrance Sherlock moaned eagerly and put both hands to good use by pushing his hands against his trousers to lower them. There was a momentary struggle, a rearranging of limbs, and then Sherlock’s legs were bare to the night’s cool air. Watson pressed a finger inside of him and Sherlock hissed at the new feeling, but found himself more than eager for more. Once two fingers were inside of him and spreading to stretch the muscle he re-considered that thought but dismissed it as nerves. Then Watson’s fingers were leaving him curiosly bereft and Sherlock whined for more.

“Roll over?”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded, preferring the less intimate position.

Watson leaned back and Sherlock clamoured to his knees and presented his arse, gasping at the feel of air touching the most intimate area of his body as his hole gaped and twitched. Watson pressed a come and spit-slicked cock against his backside and they both groaned as he slowly pushed inside. They paused when he was halfway in, and Sherlock wondered why until he heard himself making a pained whining sound. He stopped it and Watson gave him a moment to adjust before pushing the rest of the way in. Fully seated, the soldier held still again while Sherlock gasped and whimpered, shifting a bit on his knees as he tried to reconcile the intrusion that felt like an odd combination of pain and pleasure.

“I’m… ready,” Sherlock panted, not certain he was but eager to get on with it.

Watson slid out and then pushed back in with a heady groan. Sherlock’s head spun as multiple signals went off in his brain. Burning pain, sparking pleasure, a gratifying feeling at having wrung such wanton noises from the soldier, a daring feeling as he felt the mans thick cock pull out and push back in. Sherlock thrust back this time, pushing himself to an angle he hoped would result in a press to his prostate and…

“Yes!” Sherlock gasped.

Watson moaned and began to thrust in earnest, unconsciously battering Sherlock’s prostate and driving him wild. Sherlock’s cock was heavy between his thighs now, bouncing with each thrust into his body. Watson was not neglect with his lover, and reached around to stroke Sherlock’s cock. The movement dislodged him from that perfect angle and Sherlock whimpered needily and shifted to find it again. He ended up spreading his legs wider and tilting forward a bit more. The movement must have been erotic because it left Watson breathily singing his praises.

“Yes, that’s it you gorgeous thing, you,” Watson gasped, “Like that do you? Nice and big, stretching out your arse. Oh, fuck, you’re so tight I could come just from the _heat_ inside you! Come on, let go. I can feel how tightly you’re wound up. Let go and come for me.”

Sherlock moaned, consciously forcing his body to relax and enjoy the pleasure sparking both inside and out. When he closed his eyes sparks few behind the lids and mesmerized him. He found himself making all manor of humiliating noises as he keened and gasped, thrusting back on the cock in his arse and then arching into the hand that pleasured his cock. All too soon Sherlock felt his bollocks draw up.

“No, no, no, no, no,” Sherlock moaned, not wanting this unbearably intimate moment to pass, because how often would he find someone this attractive and eager to please? Sherlock reached down and stilled Watson’s hand, tugging his bollocks to keep himself from climaxing.

“Want more, do you?” Watson panted, then put both hands on Sherlock’s rump and began to fuck him fast and hard.

“Yes!” Sherlock shouted, bucking back to meet that beautiful member inside of him, “Oh, gods, I can’t believe what you’ve reduced me to!”

Watson chuckled, “You’re gorgeous like this. You _belong_ in a state of constant arousal. Let me do that for you? Mmmm, let me pleasure you till you faint from it.”

“Yes! Fuck! Oh, gods, yes!” Sherlock was _right there_ about to come from the feel of the dick battering his prostate and the unbelievable glide of that cock around the sensitive ring of his entrance. Giving in to the urge he reached down and stroked himself three times, long firm pulls on his cock that tugged at his foreskin.

When Sherlock came it felt endless. He knew he was shouting outloud, but he’d never had an orgasm like this before. It felt drawn out, barely satisfying and yet completely fulfilling. He felt himself clenching around the cock in his arse and was mildly aware of Watson stuttering to a halt and moaning out his own release. He imagined he could feel the hot fluids flooding his insides, and that only made Sherlock’s pleasure double. He was babbling affirmations and pushing back on Watson eagerly to rub his prostate and milk out his orgasm. Sherlock looked between his legs at the slow dribble of come as he milked himself mercilessly.

Watson eventually hissed at the overstimulation and pulled free and Sherlock groaned at the flood of fluids that slid down his bollocks.

“You need a wash,” Watson panted, “So do I. Come back inside?”

“Y-yes,” Sherlock panted.

What was he to do? Arrest the man now? He was barely able to walk back to the little hobbit hole and nearly fell down the ladder. They got inside and Watson sprayed some water into a pale for Sherlock. He washed himself up and then climbed into the loft. Watson did the same and they curled into each other’s arms.

“One of us is going to kill the other in the morning,” Watson muttered as he pulled Sherlock tight to him and pressed his face to his chest. His stubble was chaffing Sherlock, but it only added to his tingling nerves. He ran his fingers through the soft blonde hair.

“Probably.”

“Mmm,” Watson groaned, and then sighed and dropped off to sleep.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock rarely ever slept in, but he was undoubtedly not the first one awake in the morning. He was awoken by the smell of eggs and some odd meat being cooked on a griddle over the hearth in his ‘kitchen’. That was where the smoke stack above led. The wide stone fireplace was crudely made but clearly sturdy. Watson was holding a metal pan low in the flames and poking at the contents with a spatula.

“Where do you get eggs from?” Sherlock asked eagerly.

“That tunnel behind me,” Watson nodded over his shoulder without turning his head, “Forks after about ten feet. It leads to an underground animal pen towards the left and a dry storage for food towards the right. I stole a few chickens and a goat from a farmer. They weren’t thrilled to be kept underground and the chickens wouldn’t lay eggs for a bit, but I treat them like pets and they eventually warmed up to me and started cooperating. I get a few eggs a day. The goats getting old. I’m not sure how much longer she’ll make milk for me or even live. For now, I’m getting a couple glasses a day. Would you like some?”

Watson pointed to a pail being kept far from the fire. Sherlock took a metal cup off the fireplace shelf and scooped up some milk. A sip revealed it to be quite good, if warm.

“I need to use the… tree,” Sherlock snorted.

“Go on then. I’ve made up my mind about you, and that’s to do nothing. Make yourself comfortable or kill me. I’ll not be arrested, though. If you leave and bring back coppers I’ll just slit my throat,” This was all delivered with the nonchalance of someone discussing the morning paper.

“Right then. Be back in a mo’.”

Sherlock headed outside, snatching up the trowel by the door as he went, and found a spot to dig a hole and relieve himself. It was a bit awkward, but it wasn’t as if he’d never ‘gone’ outdoors before. He used the leaves he’d collected along the way to wipe up and then went back inside and filled the wash pail with water. He cleaned himself further, using a lump of ‘soap’ that Watson had pointed out to him the night before.

“How do you make the soap?” Sherlock asked, giving it a sniff, “Lard from your kills, rosemary, and… mint?”

“Mint leaves. I make a tea out of it to use for brushing my teeth and in the soap. It’s a natural cleanser. Rosemary and mint keep bugs away, too.”

“That explains why you smell like it.”

“Hm, like how I smell, too, do you?”

“You smell like pine needles as well.”

“They’re in the bedding,” Watson explained, “They smell good, keep the area comfortable, and keep most bugs away.”

“Do you animals never go outside? That could make them ill.”

“I take them out once a day for some sunlight,” Watson replied, “I usually do it in the morning, actually. Care to come along?”

“Certainly,” Sherlock replied, “I’ve nothing better to do.”

_Not until I convince you to turn yourself in rather than kill yourself. Or at least tell me who you were in Moriarty’s organization first. After that you can do as you please to yourself._

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock followed Watson down the narrow tunnel, noting where it forked off to the right, and helped him herd the chicken and goat up a slope to yet another exit.

“Why didn’t you just use this one last night?” Sherlock called, “Because of the noise they make? Do they make this racket when I’m not present?”

“They’re less noisy when you’re not here,” Watson called back as he chased checked out the door for predators before waving the animals outside, “But also you’d have seen me if I’d come out here. You were right up there.”

Sherlock followed where he pointed and acknowledged it with a nod. Watson’s animals were quite eager to be outside, but also eager to be as far from Sherlock as possible. They happily rooted through the undergrowth, the chickens scratching for bugs and the goat happily eating the foliage. Watson left the chickens to themselves and kept pushing the goat to a different plant so it didn’t leave obvious signs that an animal had been eating there. He kept an eye out for predators the entire time. After a few hours the animals were herded back in, protesting the entire way and requiring the goat to be poked with a stick and eventually drug inside by the horns, bleating angrily the entire way.

Sherlock smirked at their antics and laughed at Watson’s struggles, but instead of being furious with him Watson only chuckled as well. Once inside he started up on lunch, taking the alternate trail down into the cellar, where it was quite cool, and pulling out some smoked meat that had been wrapped in leaves there.

“I try not to use this too much. I need to keep a stock of it for winter, fresh is more palatable, and of course it stops me being lazy if I _have_ to hunt.”

Sherlock wrenched off a bite of the meat and had to agree that it wasn’t the most palatable taste in the world.

“Try rubbing herbs into slits in the meat before smoking it,” Sherlock advised.

“Oh, really? Thanks, I’ll try that.”

“You have an herb garden?”

“I plant them here and there and encourage their growth, but not a full-out garden. Speaking of my gardens, we’ll be heading there after lunch.”

 “That’s the hottest part of the day,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Yes, but evening is better for hunting and it’s better to get the animals out before they get sleeping around noon, so there you have it.”

Sherlock sighed and sulked, then took up pointing out ways to improve Watson’s living situation. He expected the ex-army man to lose his temper as most people did when Sherlock showed off how smart he was, but instead he was treated to the man looking enthusiastic and happily going about fixing up his little hovel.

“Why didn’t I think of any of this?” Watson asked when he showed Sherlock his bees and the man rattled off a dozen ways to keep the queen happy. Sherlock had been thrilled to find the man kept bees, even if it was only for their wax and honey rather than the hum and charming behavior that Sherlock found so soothing.

“Because you’re an idiot,” Sherlock replied automatically, but then corrected himself when Watson gave him an annoyed look, “No, don’t look like that. Compared to me practically everyone is.”

Watson laughed, “That brilliant, are you?”

“I’m a genius,” Sherlock stated with a shrug, “Just look how I’ve managed to manipulate you into letting me have my way. Now I’m no longer tied up, have had fantastic sex twice, been kept fed and comfortable, and kept you cleaning and fixing things all day rather than dealing with the impeding situation of my convincing you to turn yourself in.”

Watson snorted, “Except you just pointed it all out to me. What makes you think I’ll _ever_ agree to turn myself in?”

“Because you’re clearly wracked with guilt. Sebastian Moran tricked you into working for Moriarty, probably by giving you a detailed list of false crimes of the victims you sniped for him.”

Watson tensed, “How did you know I was a sniper?”

“Elementary my dear Watson,” Sherlock smirked, “You’ve still got the calluses that prove your profession right there on your hands.”

“John.”

“Sorry?”

“My name is John. We’ve had sex, you know, and slept in each other’s arms. That puts us on a first name basis in most cultures.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “I’m going to convince you to turn yourself in eventually. We aren’t… _boyfriends_ , Watson.”

Watson snorted, “I’m not going to turn myself in, but you _are_ going to call me John. If it makes you feel better you don’t have to call me your boyfriend. That terms a bit stupid anyway, at least I think it is. We aren’t boys and we aren’t friends.”

“So you want to call us, what? Malelovers? Menlovers?”

John snorted, “How about just lovers? Or bedfellows?”

“Bedfellows?” Sherlock laughed, “Sounds like goodfellows.”

“Well, I was Moriarty’s sniper,” John stated in a bitter tone, “Goodfellows sounds about right.”

“You sound unhappy about your previous role.”

“I _am_ unhappy about it. As you pointed out, Seb tricked me. How did you know that part, anyway?”

“You mentioned that you were paying for your crimes and you’re obviously feeling guilty.”

“How did you figure out the part about him giving me fake rap sheets?”

“Your record from the army shows that you had strong moral convictions. I asked myself what would make a morally sound man murder people in cold blood: it would be if he thought it was justified. How to justify it? Moriarty has already framed me for crimes I did not commit, why not others? I know for a fact that he repeats his schemes at times.”

John nodded, “It was when he framed you that I started putting things together. I mean, obviously I _knew_ that Moriarty was real yet he’d managed to make himself disappear and make you look like a scam artist. I started doing research on my previous victims, and several of them were squeaky clean.”

“Just several?”

“He had me eliminate some of his own people at times.”

“Ah.”

“So when I got my order to climb up on a roof and shoot your DI friend, I accepted the job without letting on that I knew he wasn’t running a drug ring with you like they’d said. I had no intention of firing even if I got the order to. Thing is with Moriarty, he always has double blinds in place. I knew when I didn’t take the shot I’d be shot instead, and I had no way of knowing where the shot would come from or when. Of course, it was called off when you jumped so I took my chance and vanished in the confusion that started up when Moriarty killed himself.”

“Of course,” John continued with a sigh, “I was still killing people illegally, so even if I turn myself in and go to court I’ll still be spending the rest of my life in prison.”

“And _this_ isn’t prison?” Sherlock asked, waving his hand at John’s little hobbit hole home.

“Oh, it’s a prison all right, but it’s one of my own making. I wouldn’t last in prison. I’d be fighting everyone every day. Strong moral convictions, remember? It would be a death sentence. I’d rather do either on _my_ terms.”

“You’ll stay here for the rest of your life?”

“Precisely.”

Sherlock fell silent, not sure what to say to such fervor. John sighed and grabbed a few supplies from his home, “I’m going to take care of the gardens. You coming?”

Sherlock nodded, but he had no intention of gardening, and John didn’t push him to help. Instead Sherlock stood to one side analyzing John’s composting efforts and informing him of various options to yield better returns on his two small gardens. John listened intently and complimented him often and Sherlock found himself basking in the soldier’s attention. After the gardening was done they headed back to the ‘house’ with a basket balanced on John’s head full of vegetables and herbs. The herbs he hung in the pantry and sorted and stored the vegetables as well, putting the newest stuff towards the back of the shelves so the older stuff was consumed first. Sherlock admired his efforts and left his comments to himself this time around. When John went back to the kitchen and stripped, Sherlock sat himself down on the bench and watched eagerly while the man stood over the wash bucket and scrubbed the sweat and dirt from his body.

John was head to toe muscles, but not the bulging sort that made you think of a stack of tires. He was toned and tanned, his body compact and sensual. High up on one shoulder was an old bullet wound that Sherlock hadn’t seen until this moment. It was a through and through, the back showing as the exit wound with obvious trauma. There were other scars, of course, but they were all signs of work or accidents.

“That wound is why you were discharged,” Sherlock stated.

“Yes, bit ugly, yeah?”

“Scars are informative, they’re neither attractive nor unattractive.”

“Hm, that’s a good attitude,” John nodded.

“Psychosomatic issues were also noted on your transcripts, but I’ve seen no sign of them.”

“They vanished when I started sniping for Moriarty,” John confessed with a guilty glance, “They came back for a while when I went into hiding, but they’ve slowly edged off again. Sometimes my leg bothers me or my hand trembles, but for the most part I’m fine.”

“Interesting. Tell me, when does it seem to come back? When you’re short on food?”

“The opposite, actually. When I’m bored it starts up. Most days are all about survival, but sometimes the food comes easy and the repairs get done and then there’s nothing to do except talk to the chickens, goats, and Idgit.”

“You have an innate need for danger,” Sherlock replied contemplatively, “You’ve mentioned Idgit before. Who or what is that?”

John snorted, “My pet fox. She’s pregnant right now.”

“A pet fox?” Sherlock asked eagerly, “Why haven’t I seen her? Where is she? How do you keep her from the chickens? Why is her name Idgit?”

“Whoa, whoa,” John laughed, “Her name is Idgit because I found her trapped in a fallen tree trunk, caught by her tail in a bit that had wedged. She _does_ bother the chickens, but they peck the shit out of her and she’s a wimp. She mostly eats rodents that try to come in here and raid my larder. She’s probably hiding from you in her den. It’s around the back. She’s actually the one that tipped me off that you were there.”

Sherlock thought back and remembered hearing a fox yip, “That little _bitch_.”

John laughed and dropped the flannel he’d been washing which and headed over to Sherlock, “You got a bit of fun out of it, didn’t you?”

Sherlock smirked at John’s heated look and glided to his feet to slip his arms around his lover’s shoulders.

“Mmm, you smell good,” Sherlock purred.

“Not as good as you do,” John growled, sliding his tongue up Sherlock’s long neck.

They kissed slowly, exploring each other’s mouths, as they hadn’t had the chance to the night before. Sherlock pulled him tightly against his chest and stroked his hands over those firm shoulders. John sighed contentedly through his nose and then pulled back and reached up to run his fingers through Sherlock’s curls.

“You’re gorgeous. I thought I’d stop thinking that once I got off, because really I’ve never liked blokes, but you’re so bloody _gorgeous_ and brilliant to boot… How do you not have hundreds of men and women worshiping you?”

Sherlock snorted, “Because most people find me irritating at best and maddening at worse.”

John laughed, “Oh, you’re irritating and maddening all right, but that’s what makes you a _challenge_. I’ve never met someone that required me to silently count to ten on a regular basis before. I think my IQ’s going up with all this exercise you’re giving my brain.”

“One can only hope,” Sherlock replied dryly, making John laugh again.

“Come to bed you mad irritating thing, you.”

They climbed into the loft, settling down on the blankets amidst the scented ‘mattress’ that the blankets lay upon. Sherlock rolled John onto his back and lay between his thighs, hungrily kissing the shorter man’s neck and shoulders before traveling down his body to spend ages on each nipple. John was panting and sighing in pleasure, one hand resting in Sherlock’s hair and the other gripping the blankets.

“That sharp tongue of yours sure can turn soft,” John panted as Sherlock worked his way down lower.

“Lubricant?”

“Not… not really. Soap’d probably burn.”

“Quite,” Shelrock sighed, “We’ll just have to make due.”

Sherlock pressed a hand to John’s lips and he swallowed down three fingers, saturating them with his spit while Sherlock pressed kisses to the crown of John’s cock. Sherlock set about stretching John, who was nervous and clenching rather much.

“Trust me,” Sherlock purred, “I won’t hurt you.”

“No, you’ll just turn me into the police and send me off to my death,” John laughed bitterly, but unclenched his muscles nonetheless.

Sherlock swallowed as much of John’s cock down as he could manage in reward, making the strong soldier groan in pleasure. Sherlock had managed two fingers by now and expertly found John’s prostate.

“Fuck! Oh! W-what was… fuck!”

“Your prostate.”

“Is it _supposed_ to feel good?!”

“I’d like to think so,” Sherlock replied with a chuckle, giving John’s leaking head a swipe with his tongue.

“Mmm, do that agaaaaain!” John squirmed eagerly and Sherlock sat back and watched, mesmerized, as he massaged the man’s prostate and he fell apart beneath him.

John was stroking himself firmly, his rough hands tight on his cock as he thrusted into his hand. Sherlock followed the roll of his hips, pleasuring the man as he gasped and moaned in excitement. When he began to toss his head in clear indication of impending orgasm, Sherlock leaned forward eagerly and cupped his hand over the man’s cockhead. John came with a grunt and then a long drawn out moan as Sherlock milked his prostate, catching every drop of his release in his hand. Sherlock slicked his own neglected member up with the impromptu lube and smeared a bit around John’s grasping entrance.

John had gone boneless beneath Sherlock, a half grin on his otherwise relaxed face. He made no indication of even noticing when Sherlock pressed the tip of his member against John’s pucker. When Sherlock began to push inside the man’s eyebrows furled and he hissed a bit, but made no protest. Sherlock took it slowly, holding back his urge to thrust, thrust, _thrust_ into the strapping blonde beneath him. When he was finally seated he had to take a few breaths to calm himself. He couldn’t believe how tightly John clenched around his body. It was breathtaking and Sherlock pressed kisses to his face and lips to reward him for feeling so utterly _good_.

“M-move,” John gasped.

Sherlock slid out and then slowly back in, drawing a moan from them both. He reveled in it for a while, keeping the pace slow and teasing while John stroked his hands lovingly up and down Sherlock’s body, occasionally reaching around to fondle his buttocks.

“Your arse is gorgeous,” John whispered.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something witty, but the response fled when John’s body fluttered and clenched around him. Sherlock moaned and sped up, his thrusts becoming more frantic as he chased his release. He was vaguely aware that John’s eyes were open and staring at him in worshipful amazement, but he was too intent on his goal to do more than observe. Sherlock was approaching the cusp of his orgasm, his body tightly wound as his bollocks drew up and everything became focused around the pleasure he felt thrumming up his hard length. He hovered there a moment, trapped on the precipice of truly explosive gratification, and then came plummeting down with a wild cry and a frenzied jerking of his hips.

“Oh, Ohh! John! Ahhh!”

“Sherlock,” John whispered softly, caressing the back of his neck as Sherlock lay still on top of him, panting and trembling from the force of his climax, “That was beautiful. I like watching you come undone.”

“You undo me,” Sherlock breathed, shivering as John unintentionally tickled the nape of his neck.

“I’m going to fall in love with you. It’s the only likely course being how I’ve lived the last four years. I’d likely feel that way about anyone who showed up here after all this time, but you… you’re too good to be real.”

Sherlock didn’t like the idea of John falling for whoever wandered across him for the first time in four years, but he couldn’t argue with the psychology behind his statement so he settled for kissing him possessively.

_Wait. Possessively?!_

John smiled up at him warmly when Sherlock broke the kiss.

“I hate to break this up, but I really do need to go hunting and check on Idgit.”

“Yes. Of course.”

Sherlock rolled away and John stretched and then climbed out of the loft. He spent a moment cleaning up again, dressed, grabbed a bow and quiver of arrows and headed out the door with a sharp salute to Sherlock where he still lay amongst the blankets. The second John was gone Sherlock scrambled down, washed his privates, and then set about pacing the room nervously. After an hour he still hadn’t thought up a suitable solution, which left him with one option. Sherlock dressed, grabbed his pack from where John had placed it near then hall entryway, and climbed up into the chilling twilight.

Sherlock gave John’s home a careful glance and then turned towards the north and began a brisk pace towards civilization.

[CHAPTER TWO](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/12407.html)


	2. Chapter 2

 

[ **vincentmeoblinn** ](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/)

**Please come at once to Abernathy Golf Club in Cairngorms National Park in Scotland if convenient. – SH**

**Who is this? How dare you impersonate my brother! - M**

**If inconvenient, come anyway. – SH**

**Sherlock? – M**

**Sorry dude, I just leant some hiker my phone. He’s in a café. You want me to get him?**

**No need. – M**

Sherlock smirked when Mycroft walked through the door in his typical three piece suit with that ridiculous brolly in tow. His face was a schooled in a bland expression as he sat down across from Sherlock in the booth he’d been sitting in for the last three hours. He’d managed a meal and had nursed a few cups of coffee.

“This may actually be the biggest stunt you’ve ever pulled,” Mycroft stated, but there was no warmth in his voice.

“Oh, you’re hurt! That’s rich! Especially since _you’re_ the reason Moriarty had so much ammunition against me.”

“I never imagined… I never _intended_ ,” Mycroft replied, his voice soft and surprisingly distressed.

“Indeed,” Sherlock snorted, “And have buried your guilt with crumpets for the last four years if your waistline has anything to say about it.”

“You should talk, showing up here _high_ four years after _faking your death_ ,” Mycroft hissed angrily.

Sherlock blinked in confusion, “I’m not high.”

“Please, Sherlock, I’ve known you your entire life. I know what you look like when you’re high.”

“I’m really not,” Sherlock replied, annoyed by the incorrect assumption, “I’ve had a sandwich and a few cups of coffee in the last six hours. Before that I had venison jerky and water. Before that I had eggs, something that vaguely resembled bacon, and mint tea.”

“ _Mint tea_?” Mycroft asked with a look of disgust on his face.

Sherlock shrugged, “It seemed to fit seeing as how I was breaking my fast in a hole in the ground.”

“And we’re back to you being high,” Mycroft sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“I meant that literally.”

“I believe you,” Mycroft nodded with a mocking frown.

“Perhaps I should start from the beginning,” Sherlock sighed.

“Would that be before or after you jumped off of a building and _faked your death_?”

“After. Four years after. That’s the part that matters. I was hunting down John Watson-“

“Moriarty’s second best sniper,” Mycroft intoned with a nod.

“ _Second_ best?!”

“Moran was his best.”

Sherlock sputtered. Despite it being a morally reprehensible action, he didn’t like the idea that John was _second_ best to Moran when he’d had such an easy time hunting _that_ brain-dead lump down.

“John is _not…_ It took me four _years_ … If you saw how well he’s hidden himself and _survived_ all this time…”

“My gods, you’re in love with him!” Mycroft gaped, “Oh, this is just too good! You hunted down Moriarty’s network- good on you for that by the way I’ve admired your efforts even if I didn’t know the source- but fell for the last soldier standing! My gods, Sherlock, I never thought I’d see the day! Mummy will have a stroke!”

“You leave Mummy out of this!” Sherlock shouted at him.

“A _criminal_ , Sherlock! Is this autoassasinophilia? It’s certainly hybristophilia! You’ve spent ages hunting them down and now you’ve been _seduced_ by one!” Mycroft was laughing outright now.

“I’ll have you know _I_ seduced _him_!”

“Oh, and that makes it so much better!” Mycroft pulled out a handkerchief to cover his reddening face with, dabbing at his tearing eyes while Sherlock sulked.

“Are you quite through?” Sherlock growled.

“Oh, I’m sure if you give me a moment to think I can…”

“ _Mycroft!_ ” Sherlock snapped, “He is a suicidal hermit! I called you for _help_.”

That brought Mycroft to a blind halt, “Sherlock… How serious are you about him?”

“Completely. I need to find a way to either change his identity or get him pardoned so he feels free to come out of the woods. Once he’s at home in Baker Street with me everything will work out.”

“Speaking of work…”

“He’ll be my assistant. He has medical training from the army. Blood and gore doesn’t bother him. He’ll be perfect.”

“Once he tastes your sharp tongue…”

“He already has.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, “And he hasn’t caved in his hole in the ground over his own head?”

“He _loves_ me,” Sherlock stated plainly.

“You’re both mad,” Mycroft replied, shaking his head in shock, “How long have you been out here with him?”

“Seventeen hours and thirteen minutes.”

Mycroft sat back on the bench, adjusting his suit jacket and staring sharply at Sherlock, “That _is_ a record regarding personal interaction with you.”

“Not just personal interaction, near constant _one on one_ personal interaction. We were alone aside from his farm animals.”

“Farm ani… good grief, Sherlock, really?” Mycroft asked in disgust.

“Well he has to _eat_ , doesn’t he?”

“And you want to move this _woodland elf_ into your home and live with him after a mere seventeen hours together? Was the sex that good? Wait, what am I saying,” Mycroft burst out laughing, “ _You_ and sex?!”

“He’s really more of a _hobbit_ than an elf, and yes, the sex was that good. All three times.”

“Three times in seventeen hours?” Mycroft sighed, “You don’t do things by halves, do you?”

“Halves? Boring.”

“Sherlock, he’s a criminal. All repartee aside, what do you think is going to happen when you bring him home? Shall I send him to rehab with you?”

“I. Am. Not. High.”

“Your eyes are red, your respiration is rapid, your pulse is so elevated I can see it from _here_ , and your eyes are dilating over and again.”

Sherlock glanced at his reflection in the mirror in confusion, “I _do_ look high.”

“Yes. You do.”

“That’s… odd,” Sherlock stated, and stood to go into the bathroom and get a better look at himself.

Mycroft, of course, followed him and they both stood in front of the mirror and stared at his reflection contemplatively.

“Perhaps people in love look like this,” Sherlock suggested.

“An interesting theory,” Mycroft replied neutrally.

“You have no idea, do you?”

“Well since you seem sincere in your claim that you aren’t on any influencing substances… Why are you smirking?”

“Sorry,” Sherlock replied, thinking of a particular substance John had put inside of him.

“I see,” Mycroft smirked, “I think your theory is sound. You were thinking of your paramour just now, weren’t you?”

_Of a certain part of him, yes._

“Yes,” Sherlock replied.

“Well, I think that settles things. If John Watson is your new drug of choice I have _little_ choice.”

“Little choice but to do what?” Sherlock asked suspiciously.

“To buy hiking gear and go meet my future brother-in-law,” Mycroft replied, his face twisted in disgust.

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock climbed down the ladder with a shout, “Honey! I’m home!”

A bark of laughter greeted his announcement, and Sherlock ducked into John’s place with a smile in place. His mouth dried up at what he saw. John was wearing only trousers and shaving his face with a sharpened buck knife. Sherlock lowered his pack into the corner with it’s extra mass tied on top.

“Mmmm…” Sherlock purred, “We have to stop meeting like this.”

“What, with me holding a knife? Where’s the fun in that? I didn’t think you’d be back,” John replied, taking a final swipe at his chin and then wiping his face off and heading over to Sherlock.

The two greeted each other with soft smiles and a hesitant kiss.

“I had to get a few things from civilization… and clear my head a bit,” Sherlock confessed the last without having planned to.

“That’s understandable,” John nodded with a reasonable look on his face, “Now that your heads clear… what’s going on inside it?”

“More things at once than most could process,” Sherlock snorted, “but you’ve no need to worry. I’m certain about this. There are few people who truly recognize my intellect, and you’re one of them. I don’t take that for granted.”

“Well then, I’ll go on recognizing, shall I? My gorgeous genius,” John pressed a firm kiss to Sherlock’s lips and the detective pulled him into a tighter clasp.

Movement caught Sherlock’s eye and he slipped free of John’s grasp and curiously inspected the underside of the bench.

“Oh, look! Idgit, here vixen, vixen, vixen,” Sherlock dropped down to his knees and held out a dog biscuit, “I came prepared to meet you this time. Friend, Idgit, I’m a _friend_. You’re going to come live with your daddy and I at Baker Street in London.”

“Sorry, what?” John asked, turning in surprise.

“Oh, I assumed you’d want to take her, but if she’s going to stay with her mate…”

“No, that’s not… wait… I can’t just… Sherlock, what are you talking about?” John stammered in confusion.

“Relax, John, it’s all being taken care of.”

“Taken care of? By whom and in what way?”

“You needn’t worry about that. As I said, it’s being taken care of,” Sherlock grinned as an orange muzzle appeared from under the bench and snapped up the biscuit Sherlock was holding out, “I’ll have her warmed up to me in no time. Tattle on _me_ will you, little vixen.”

John snorted, “Well, just so long as you remember my conditions.”

“Yes, yes, death before imprisonment, you made that _quite_ clear. Do talk to me before you kill yourself. My profession has allowed me to learn quite a few ways to accomplish that task painlessly and with little mess.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” John snickered.

“How tame is she? Will she sit in your lap like a cat?”

“Only on her terms and not since some dog got her up the duff.”

“You’re possessive of her! How very ‘John’ of you,” Sherlock grinned, realizing at that moment that John had somehow become a system of measure for him.

“That’s me, being myself 24 hours out of the day,” John replied half-heartedly, not realizing the significance of Sherlock’s statement. Sherlock didn’t mind. He realized John’s inferior intellect would likely miss several things between them. It only made it more important to protect him from himself.

“So what’s on our plate for today?” Sherlock asked as he straightened up.

“More of the same, although we could start by going through the stuff you brought. You hungry?”

“Not really,” Sherlock replied, heading for his bag and starting to unload it, “I brought a few things I thought would make our lives easier. Lubricant…”

“I was hoping that was on the list,” John grinned snatching the bottle up and pocketing it with a leer, “What else?”

“Some vitamins, water purification tabs –you boil your milk so I didn’t pick up anything for that- a candle holder with a mirror to brighten the place up, and a few books for entertainment.”

“Books?” John asked, visibly perking up. Sherlock smirked and handed them to him, “ _The Science of Deduction, Criminal Investigation, Forensics for Dummies…_ Really?”

“The shop clerk recommended it and it seems to cover a wide range. The first one is my book, of course.”

“Yes, I’ve read part of it but I never got to finish it before…” John’s voice wandered off and he did as well, crossing the room to toss himself down on the bench and lean against the curved dirt wall.

Sherlock joined him with a frown, “Your mood has changed.”

“Mmm,” John nodded, paging through the book, possibly to find the last part he’d read.

“Is this a bad or a good change?”

John gave him a confused look, “You can’t tell?”

“I’m good at reading many things about people, but emotions often elude me. I can tell that you’ve turned contemplative, but not what that might mean or why.”

“I was just remembering my last few days before I had to go into hiding,” John sighed, “I miss London.”

“Then it’s a good thing we’ll be returning there,” Sherlock smiled and leaned in for a kiss, but John pulled back.

“Sherlock, _how_?”

Sherlock frowned at his retreat, “Leave that up to me. Kiss me.”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John snapped irritably.

Sherlock chased his lips when he leaned back and they ended up sprawled on the bench with Sherlock trying to pin him down and extract a kiss. They struggled for a moment and then John gave in and went limp, twisting his hips to budge his lower half onto the bench while Sherlock demandingly pressed their lips together and thrust his tongue into John’s mouth and fucked him with it. Once John’s legs were wrapped around Sherlock’s torso the eager detective began to thrust against him, eliciting a moan from his lover.

“Sher,” John gasped, breaking the kiss and arching his back, “Oh, fuck I missed you last night.”

“Mmm, let me make it up to you,” Sherlock purred, kissing his way down John’s body and mouthing the front of his jeans.

“Oh, fuck! Yes! That!”

“That?” Sherlock chuckled.

“D-don’t make me say it,” John whimpered rubbing his hips against thin air when Sherlock drew back.

“Say what, John?” Sherlock smirked.

“S-suck me off,” John replied, brazenly meeting Sherlock’s eyes in defiance of his original shyness.

Sherlock groaned and tugged John’s trousers open, “If you insist, but I want you inside me before we’re through so don’t you _dare_ ejaculate in my mouth.”

“Fuck,” John gasped, throwing his head back as Sherlock swallowed him down, “Oooh, I love that.”

Sherlock popped off, ignoring John’s protests, “Do you enjoy giving as well as receiving?”

“I… I might…” John replied breathlessly.

Sherlock sat up and eagerly stripped off his trousers while John knelt between his thighs.

“Mmm, all sweaty,” John nuzzled into Sherlock’s crotch.

“I was hiking… should I bathe?” Sherlock asked, recalling Mycroft’s instructions to consider John’s feelings from time to time.

“Uh, uh, your sweat smells good, mmmmm.”

John nuzzled his crotch again, breathing him in, and then licked a stripe up Sherlock’s hardening cock. It bounced eagerly and John chuckled and chased it with his tongue, swiping at it playfully for a few seconds before giving him proper attention. Sherlock was frustrated and snarking by the time John swallowed his prick down, but that only seemed to add to the pleasure as that hot cavern wrapped around his aching erection.

Sherlock gasped and moaned, arching into John’s mouth as he squirmed on the padded bench. When he felt a finger prodding his entrance he spread his legs with an eager moan and slid down so John could press inside of him. The lube made a world of difference and John got up to the third finger before Sherlock felt any significant discomfort. Of course, he was also suitably distracted by John sucking greedily on his cock.

“S-stop,” Sherlock gasped, and John retreated as though slapped.

“Did I hurt you?”

“Don’t want to come yet,” Sherlock replied with a grin and then patted the bench beside him, “Sit down. I want to try a position I looked up.”

“Oh, did you come back with a _Kama Sutra_ and not show it to me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock snorted, “I didn’t have room for things that I could easily memorize.”

“Easily memor…oooooohhhh,” John groaned as Sherlock sank down on his cock until he was sitting in John’s lap, his splayed legs braced on the floor on either side of John’s.

Sherlock panted a moment, sweat having broken out across his brow at the effort of taking John’s cock in one go, but he grinned triumphantly. He’d had a theory that John’s height difference would be perfect for this position- as well as the bench’s height- but he just loved to be proven right. Once Sherlock had adjusted to the stretch he leaned forward a bit and instructed John to grasp his hips. Sherlock put his hands on John’s knees and together they lifted Sherlock up and dropped him back down.

“Fuck!” John gasped, but Sherlock found the angle disappointing. His prostate wasn’t being touched at all. Sherlock shifted backwards, but this angle was impossible to thrust on. Sherlock growled in frustration, and John groaned in annoyance.

“What’s wrong?” John grunted.

“Angle.”

“Floor.”

“The _dirt_ floor?”

“Our first time was in the woods, you’re complaining now?”

“Point.”

Sherlock slid off with a hiss, and John slicked himself up with more lube before dropping to his back on the ground. Sherlock dropped down onto his cock a bit more carefully and then leaned back to rest his hands on John’s chest. Sherlock bent his legs and then lifted up and slowly slid down again while John gasped beneath him in pleasure.

“Oh, that’s it,” Sherlock groaned, throwing his head back as he braced his feet and began to slowly ride John’s cock.

John gripped Sherlock’s buttocks from below and pushed him up with firmly muscled arms. Sherlock could _feel_ his eyes on him as the soldier grunted and groaned beneath him. Sherlock’s cock was waking up again and he was soon pumping up and down as fast as his legs and John’s arms could manage, crying out as the pressure inside his body rose at an exponential rate. He was swearing like a soldier, shouting John’s name, and then the coil in his belly tightened and Sherlock came with his cock untouched, his mouth open and eyes wide in a silent scream. John jerked him down and thrust up into him sharply several times, grunting and groaning his name as he pulsed inside Sherlock’s body.

Sherlock’s limbs were trembling so John lowered him down and rolled them carefully over onto their sides, slipping an arm under Sherlock’s head to cushion it. John buried his face in Sherlock’s curls and breathed in his scent, gently caressing his arm with lazy fingers.

“That was gorgeous. Utterly beautiful. I had no idea that was possible, you coming just from…”

“Just from your cock inside me,” Sherlock gasped.  

“Yes, that,” John whispered, kissing along Sherlock’s jaw and swiping a tongue across his ear.

“That was… overwhelming,” Sherlock breathed.

“Do you want a moment?” John worried, his back stiffening in alarm, “Should I leave?”

“No!” Sherlock all but shouted, but John had already slipped out of him and pulled away.

Sherlock rolled over, ignoring the moisture between his cheeks, and clutched at John who quickly wrapped his arms around him tightly.

“Shh, it’s okay. Easy. I’m not going anywhere. Not if you don’t want me to. I just thought you needed some space.”

“I need _you_.”

“I’m here, love, shhhh,” John soothed, “I’m all yours. Entirely yours. All of me.”

Sherlock tucked John’s head beneath his chin and petted his hair possessively, smiling at his lover’s oaths and pressing kisses to his the top of his head.

“My John,” Sherlock breathed gently.

XXXXXXXXXXX

They went through John’s routine again with few changes, mostly silent except for a bit of witty banter. When John went hunting Sherlock went to explore the forest, cataloging plants and collecting samples. John required him to wear that hideous baseball cap that turned out to be a gift from an American friend. He’d kept it because it was bright colored and could be used to avoid being shot by a hunter. Sherlock came back with his backpack full of plants and began hanging them around the walls with thin sticks as pegs. The walls were quite compact, so there was little crumbling.

“Don’t weaken my walls, eh?” John scolded lightly, “Leave those sticks there and re-use them.”

Sherlock ignored him, but John didn’t push the issue. John had caught a deer and was practically celebrating. He bled and skinned it, chopped off portions to smoke, and threw smaller bits into a pressure canner. He then chopped up two large steaks and started smearing herbs over them while whistling happily.

“Dinner?”

“Along with some potatoes and carrots fresh from the garden. I’m making some gravy with the liver, too.”

“If you’re as good a cook as you are a lover I will soon be fat and _very_ satisfied,” Sherlock smiled, pressing a kiss to the back of John’s neck as he worked.

“You? Fat? With how little you eat? I’ll be feeding half of this to Idgit and the goat.”

Sherlock smirked and went back to his categorizing while John got dinner ready and carried out the rest of the chores. He left momentarily to start the meat smoking and returned smelling of cedar and smoke and whistling a fresh tune. Sherlock joined in as he had a particular love of Bach and Idgit crawled out from under the bench to yip at them and wiggle her round belly. John tossed her a scrap of meat and she downed it happily.

“Fat thing, you, your dog ought to be taking care of you. If I ever get my hands on the him…”

Sherlock chuckled at John’s rant and sat down on a mat on the floor to pet Idgit who had lain down to enjoy the warmth beside the fire.

“They were only following a biological imperative.”

“Where’s his imperative while my vixen is laid up with his kits, hm?”

Sherlock shook his head in amusement and prodded the vixen’s belly, “When is she due? It looks soon, though I confess to knowing little about fox breeding habits.”

“You probably know more than I do. She’ll whelp when she chooses to and I’ll be there to help her through it. Or you will if I’m out. Or we’ll come back to a pit full of kits.”

Sherlock hadn’t slept at all the night before so he curled up quite happily with John once he finished prepping all the food. They snuggled close in the bed, nuzzling pleasantly and breathing in each other’s sweet minty breath. Sherlock began to tell John stories of his cases and the man listened with rapt attention until consciousness became too elusive for him and he fell asleep with his forehead pressed to Sherlock’s sternum. Sherlock carded his fingers through John’s hair for a bit and then let himself drift off as well.

Once again, John had awoken before him and Sherlock woke a bit perturbed by that fact. He climbed down in a stroppy mood and flopped himself down on the stool grab the heated wash bucket from beside the fire and give his face and hands a scrub. John placed a cup on the side of the bench that had become ‘Sherlock’s side’ and started scooping breakfast onto another.

“Just the tea,” Sherlock grunted, sitting down and giving it a sip.

“I can’t tell you how thrilled I am that you brought some real _English_ tea. PG Tips! Gods, it’s been so long I forgot what it tasted like.”

“You didn’t put sugar in yours.”

“I don’t like sugar in my tea, but here’s some for you; since you brought it you might as well enjoy it.”

Instead of letting Sherlock stir it in, John took the cup from his hand and added the amount of spoonfuls Sherlock requested. Then stirred it and handed it back. He seemed… nervous… Excitable, even. Sherlock watched him closely but he saw no reason for John’s behavior. Finally, Sherlock stood to join John, but he smiled and told him to stay behind.

“You relax and work on your experiment or whatever those plants are. Keep an eye on Idgit, yeah?”

“You don’t want company?”

“I’d rather you relaxed today. You spent that whole day helping me yesterday after marching all the way back. You’re bound to get bored. I’ll go on my own and you relax and make sure that Idgit is comfy.”

Sherlock shrugged and stretched himself out on the bench, reaching down to pet Idgit’s fur while John grabbed his gear and left. Sherlock was surprised to see he took everything he’d need for the entire day and left out the animals exit, but said nothing about it. It was hardly his problem if the man didn’t feel like making a trip out. Perhaps he intended on eating lunch directly from one of his gardens, or perhaps he was simply in need of space. Either way, Sherlock was fine with having a day to himself. He intended to spend it thinking over his future plans with John. He sat up to finish his tea and something bumped against his lips. Surprised, he picked up a spoon and pulled out… Mycroft’s camera. Drowned in his tea just like his phone had been drowned in a pan of water.

Sherlock had never actually _felt_ the blood drain from his face before, but he could now add that one to his list of sensations. John was surely still outside with the animals, so Sherlock bolted down the passage and pulled the latch on the door, stubbing his fingers on it when it refused to open. Sherlock paused a moment in confusion and tried the door again. It didn’t open. Curious, he knocked on it. John knocked back. Sherlock knocked again. John started ‘shave and a haircut’. Sherlock finished it.

Silence.

Sherlock stood there a moment, pulling at his hair and glancing at the musky-scented room around him. There was a barred window in the room to let in fresh air to the animals while keeping the predators out, but the thick logs made it impossible to climb out of without digging through several feet of dirt around it. Instead Sherlock rushed back through the house and tried the front door. It, too, was barred from the outside. Sherlock climbed back down, moved the bench, and found the trap door blocked as well. Now his options were limited to the two windows in the main room. He knew he could dig out around them, there was about three feet of dirt between the interior and exterior at the most narrow point, which was the top of each sill. Sherlock had just grabbed the metal hook used to pull the kettle and pans off the fire and headed for the window when he suddenly paused to think.

_What does John want? He cherishes this place; he built it with his own hands out of an animal burrow. He’s lived here for almost four years. I’ve told him we’re leaving here and given him no information; then he finds a camera and feels… what? Betrayed? What is the purpose of trapping me in here? If desperate I can leave, but I’d have to damage his home to do so. Anyone would immediately feel claustrophobic and dig their way out, but he has placed me on a pedestal. He thinks higher of me. Irrationally so. He expects me to figure him out the way I do criminals. He wants me to deduce what he wants. So. What does John want?_

Sherlock stretched out on the bench and pressed his fingers together and focused, his mind running over all he knew about John. The man was a soldier, a doctor, a lover, a morally strong man, a hard worker, a joker, a flirt, and intensely possessive of the things he loved. Sherlock was now something he loved and had threatened his entire exhistence with only a vague promise that ‘it would be alright’. John’s first instinct, apparently, had been to lock him up, but had it been to trap him or to protect him? What Sherlock knew of John told him it was the latter.

Sherlock smiled as it all clicked into place and John’s motive clicked with his actions. He stood and checked on Idgit who was panting a bit, likely going to go into labor in the next 24 hours if she hadn’t started already. He decided to do something special for John’s _other_ beloved and set about pulling bits of their bedding down and folding up a blanket. He took the hook poker from the fire and started to dig a square pit on the side of the fireplace that Idgit preferred to stretch out on. He had to discard a few rocks and dirt into the washing bucket, but it was worth it once he’d had lined and fixed up her whelping spot. He placed her wooden water bowl next to it, smirking at the effort John had gone to make a bowl for her, sanding out a chunk of wood and then using animal fat to waterproof it. She drank water but rejected food. Definitely time to whelp soon.

Sherlock thought about tidying up, but he didn’t want John to think of him as someone of the domestic persuasion. Instead he worked on his samples as John had suggested and devoted time to Idgit who had warmed up to him quite nicely. He grabbed a carrot from the pantry when his stomach growled and then sat down to watch Idgit stretch out and begin panting in earnest. It wasn’t until the sky had darkened outside that Sherlock heard the animal’s door open and the bleating of the goat as they were returned to its pen. John filled their food trough and then headed into the main area.

“Evening, how was your day?” John smiled cheerily, grabbing the fresh water bucket and filling it for the animal’s water trough.

“Uneventful. Idgit is in labor, but it could be hours yet.”

“Really?” John almost dropped the bucket to rush to her side, “You made her a… bed?”

“Mmm, the goat is bleating.”

“She’s thirsty,” John petted Idgit nervously and then dragged himself away to water the other animals.

When John returned, he picked up Sherlock’s feet and sat down with them in his lap. He began to rub them unconsciously and Sherlock groaned happily at the man’s firm grip. John’s mind was on Idgit, though, and he barely paid attention to Sherlock who sulked a bit at that but made himself wait. Once Idgit began to fuss and whine John climbed down onto the mat on the floor and sat with Idgit as she began to go into true labor. John stroked her until she got annoyed with him and snapped at his hand. Sherlock snorted.

“I see your taste in foxes runs similar to your taste in men,” Sherlock teased.

John grinned at him vaguely, grateful for the distraction and started boiling water.

“I’ve always wondered. Is there a point to boiling water for a labor?” Sherlock wondered.

“Yeah, to give nervous fathers something to do. In this case, make tea,” John replied.

“None for me, thanks, I had _plenty_ this morning.”

Sherlock noted that John winced guiltily but made no comment.

Eventually Idgit pushed out the first tiny mass and cleaned it off without any help from a nervously tea sipping John. The squeaking kit worked its way towards her teats while mom pushed out the second one. John tried and failed to hide his misty eyes, but Sherlock made no comment other than a knowing smirk, which John pointedly ignored. The third kit was born without incident and Idgit passed the placentas, which Sherlock immediately confiscated despite Idgit’s growling.

“What do you want that for?”

“Shampoo,” Sherlock replied.

“Remind me not to smell your hair anymore,” John replied with a disgusted look.

XXXXXXXXX

The next day Sherlock calmly informed John he needed more plant samples. John replied that they were set on food so they could go out for that in the evening. Then he locked Sherlock in again.

XXXXXXXXX

Sherlock knew Mycroft wouldn’t stay away for long, but he had hoped he would earn John’s trust back first. Instead it was as he was trying to talk John into letting him go out with the animals in the morning a day later that his brother showed up.

“Jooooohn, I’m boooooored.”

“You collected plant samples yesterday. Study them.”

“I did that last night while you were sleeping.”

“So sleep instead.”

“I’m not tired, I’m _bored_. Please, can’t I go out today?”

It was the first time Sherlock had actively addressed the fact that John had been keeping him caged.

“Not enjoying your less-than-gilded cage?” John asked, but the joke was tempered by his frighteningly serious look.

“It isn’t necessary. I’m not going to leave without you again and I won’t betray you.”

John looked uncertain a moment, then steeled himself and was ready to ask the questions they’d been skirting around when Mycroft chose that moment to step into the room.

“Good grief, what a filthy pit,” Mycroft announced with a disgusted moue.  

John’s movement was so fast that Sherlock didn’t even see it. He slammed his hand down on the candle and then simply vanished in the darkness that followed since the fire had already been banked for the night. Sherlock fumbled with the candle and managed to light it with the matches he’d brought back with him. 

“Detective,” John said with a polite nod, and Sherlock gaped at the glinting arrow pointing straight at Mycroft from John’s drawn bow.

“He’s not a detective, he’s a bureaucrat,” Sherlock replied with a roll of his eyes, “And sadly I can also claim fraternity with him.”

John blinked, “He’s a Uni chum?”

“I’m his brother,” Mycroft corrected.

“Oh.”

“You can put the weapon down, John,” Sherlock stated, stepping forward, “Mycroft is here to help.”

“I’m here to interrogate the man who took my baby brother’s innocence, and _perhaps_ help,” Mycroft stated, “What happened to the camera?”

“Innocence?” John snorted, “Him?”

“Virgin and innocent are two different things, Mycroft,” Sherlock scoffed.

“ _Virgin_?” John gaped.

“I understand you two have become quite close recently. Sherlock is already discussing you moving in with him. Should we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” John replied coldly.

“It is my business because I worry about my brother _constantly_.”

John’s smile resembled a mountain lion, “That might have worked on me if I hadn’t already known that you told Moriarty everything he needed to know to force him into faking his death.”

While Mycroft and John started a silent standoff, Sherlock did his best not to become aroused by the sight of John standing there like a savage warrior.

“Let me guess, Sherlock,” Mycroft deadpanned, “It’s his unparalleled intellect that first attracted you.”

“Actually I think it was his knife,” Sherlock snorted

“Don’t be crude,” Mycroft scolded.

“He meant my bowie knife,” John replied coldly, “I pinned him a couple of times with it against his throat. He decided appealing to my baser nature was a good way to disarm me.”

“It worked,” Sherlock pointed out.

“On you, too,” John replied.

“It was a mutual seduction,” Sherlock decided.

John frowned in consideration and nodded his assent to that logic.

“My gods, you’re _perfect_ for each other,” Mycroft stated in blatant disgust, “Be honest, Sherlock, did you build him out of spare parts like the monster of Frankenstein?”

“If I had he’d be taller and have a longer cock,” Sherlock replied.

“My cock hits your prostate dead on. Respect the cock,” John snapped.

“Fine. It isn’t _short_ , it’s just not _long_.”

“We can’t all have extra legs, Sherlock.”

“Are you saying my legs are long and thin?” Sherlock demanded to know.

“You shame the birches.”

“You flatter me. Do you know you do that out loud?” Sherlock winked at John and then smirked at Mycroft, “He flatters me. I love it when he flatters me.”

“As charming as his Neanderthal-like flirting is, perhaps we could move things along to him _putting down the bow and arrow_.”

“Arrow _s_. I can cock another before you can blink,” John stated, wiggling the extra arrow he had behind the pinky of his right hand where it wouldn’t interfere with the string.

“Mmm, more cock talk. This is turning into a fun day. John, I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to go out today. I want to stay here and have sex.”

“ _Sherlooock_ ,” John and Mycroft both warned.

“ _Lots_ of sex. We’ll take turns. I haven’t topped you since that second day. I want to be balls deep in you. Now.”

John’s eyes slid away from Mycroft for the first time since he’d walked in the door and slid up and down Sherlock’s body, taking in the expanding bulge at the crux of his thighs. The bowstring lost a bit of tension while Mycroft made disgusted noises.

“ _Must_ you be repulsive, Sherlock?” Mycroft snarked, “It’s bad enough with the body parts in your fridge and the chemicals on your table.”

“You’re trying to scare him off, but I’ve already told him about all of that.”

“The violin playing?”

“Yes.”

“The days of silence followed by imbibing in illegal substances?”

“The what now?” John asked in alarm, “Drugs? Him?”

“I’ve been sober for _years_.”

“You’re a risk, and not even a calculated one,” Mycroft snarled.

“Aren’t you supposed to be… oh, I don’t know, _brotherly?_ ” John replied, tightening the pull on the bowstring again.

“I am keeping him from shacking up with a hardened criminal. If that isn’t brotherly love, I don’t know what is,” Mycroft sneered.

“What happened to me being perfect for him?”

“I did mention _his_ illegal activities, did I not? Just because you both share unfortunate habits doesn’t mean you should cohabitate.”

“We’re already cohabitating. You’re trespassing.”

“You’re squatting.”

“You’re fat,” Sherlock added, just to be helpful.

“You’re juvenile,” Mycroft shot back.

“Boys, could we focus?” John cut in, “Preferably before my arm gets tired and I shoot him just because it’s an easier solution?”

“He’s so _concise_ ,” Sherlock grinned, “Isn’t that refreshing? He sees a solution and he takes it without thinking at all. He’s like water flowing downhill.”

“Causing mudslides and burying innocent victims along the way,” Mycroft batted back.

“He is _pure_ and _clear_ ,” Sherlock argued.

“You are _blind_ and losing your focus!” Mycroft shouted.

“Your only focus is sitting on your fat arse and eating cakes!” Sherlock shouted.

John fired the first arrow and had the second cocked as quickly as promised. Mycroft and Sherlock both stood and stared in shock at the arrow protruding from the dirt just inches from Mycroft’s arm. It was buried down to the fletching.

“Shall we try this again? Sherlock, your brother obviously isn’t thrilled with me. Show him the door.”

Sherlock moved to obey without thinking and Mycroft gaped at them both, “What have you done to my brother?”

“Loved him. Sherlock, I’m sure he’d like his camera back. You still have it?”

Sherlock picked it up off the mantel and handed it to Mycroft.

“Why does it smell like P.G. Tips?” Mycroft demanded to know.

“John has a penchant for drowning electronics. I’m hoping he halts that behavior once I get him back to Baker Street.”

“Baker Streets looking pretty unlikely at this point Sherlock. Mycroft, nice to meet you. Come back and visit sometime, I’m sure your brother will hate me for saying that but family is family.”

“Will your sister feel the same? She’s written you off as dead.”

“I’m sure she dances on my grave every Sunday. Out with you.”

Sherlock took Mycroft by the arm and lead him down the narrow hallway to the ladder. A glance over his shoulder showed that John had shifted to cover him and could still _quite_ easily shoot Mycroft from where he stood.

“Do as I asked you to,” Sherlock stated, loudly enough for John to hear so he wouldn’t think Sherlock was keeping secrets again.

“ _Which_ thing you asked me to do?”

“John, do you want a new identity or your slate wiped clean?” Sherlock asked.

“Whichever is easiest will do,” John replied levelly.

“Isn’t he accommodating?” Sherlock smirked before shoving at Mycroft’s arm to get him started up the latter, “Laters!”

Mycroft turned with a scowl and climbed the ladder while Sherlock stepped out of John’s way as he came down the hall and kept his arrow pointed at Mycroft’s arse all the way out the door.

“The threat to shoot him was unnecessary. He’d have probably left sooner if you’d just shot words at him,” Sherlock informed John without any heat.

John relaxed his arm, switching the bow and arrow to one hand and rotating his pained shoulder, “I’m not as smart as you are. I doubt I could have gotten him to leave quickly that way.”

“You know he’s likely bugged us again. He’s also likely to come bursting down here with a dozen soldiers with guns blazing and drag us both out the door.”

“I’ll take a few out with me,” John replied, eyes flashing.

Sherlock gathered him close, his heart pounding in alarm, “John? John the war is _over_. You aren’t a soldier any more. You’re my lover and I don’t want you killing yourself because my brother is being a domineering twat. You’re better than that. Give me the bow, put down the knife, and let him have his way a bit. He’ll make your life easier for you in the long run. Then we can _have_ a life together. Don’t you want that?”

 John shifted from foot to foot, his face pressed to Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I don’t know how to stop fighting,” John admitted.

“Let me help you,” Sherlock pleaded, seeing a flicker out of the corner of his eye. It was now or never, “Please, John. Just… surrender. Not to him, never to him, to _me_. Let me take care of you for a change. I know I’m a child in an adult’s body, but I _can_ protect you. Let me.”

The bow clattered to the floor. Sherlock grasped the knife at John’s hip and buried it in the nearby wall just as the door above them flew open and a gunman pointed down at them with a shout that they ‘hit the floor’. Sherlock dropped to his knees and took John with him, kicking the bow out of his lover’s reach and holding him tightly against himself. John was completely relaxed, his head pillowed on Sherlock’s chest and his hands lazily linked behind his back.

“John, my John,” Sherlock whispered softly, ignoring the soldiers when they tried to separate them, “Leave him, _I said leave him_. He’s surrendered, Mycroft, call off your wolves.”

Mycroft had calmly approached from a different entrance, apparently the back door since it was unlikely he’d trudge through an underground animal pen.

“To whom?”

“Me. He’ll never surrender to you. He isn’t that kind of man, and neither am I. You can take us now- with him like this- or you can leave and I’ll stay here instead.”

This was all delivered in a calm voice while Sherlock carded his fingers through John’s hair. He was going to keep a level head for John, because in a situation like this John didn’t have a fight of flight response: his go-to response was fight. Sherlock would let John fight him instead of the world; John would lose every time and would come out better for it.

“You’d go mad here,” Mycroft scoffed, “Your mind is too active. It’s a miracle you haven’t literally climbed the dirt walls!”

“I’ll make due. I’ll find a way to be happy. I _can_ be happy. With him.”

Mycroft was stunned and it showed on his face. With a careful nod he waved the gunmen aside, “There’s a jeep outside the ‘back door’. Have him take what he needs and go wait in it.”

“The fox. If anyone hurt her or her kits…”

“They’re were no foxes when we came in,” A soldier grunted out.

“She’s hiding in her den,” came John’s muffled reply, “I can get her out.”

“Do so,” Mycroft decided.

Sherlock stood slowly, tugging John with him, and pulled his soldier through the hall and into the main area.

“What do you want?”

“Idgit.”

“Anything else?”

“You.”

“Anything _material_?”

“No. Suppose I need clothes.”

“I’ll buy you new clothes,” Sherlock replied, and tugged John out the ‘back door’ and towards Idgit’s den.

 John knelt by the little hole beneath an oak tree and whistled a soft tune. Idgit stuck her head out and John coaxed her out. Once he had her secure she became frightened but he managed to hold her tightly without getting bit. Sherlock reached into the little hole and drew all three kits out, holding them gently as John tearfully pushed Idgit into a pet carrier. Her kits were added only after she calmed down and the four foxes pressed tightly into the back of the carrier and gave John betrayed looks.

“She’ll forgive us once we’re home. She and her kits can have an entire corner of the flat. Once they’re older we’ll see about releasing them or perhaps find them homes.”

“Homes. If they take after their mum they’ll never reach adulthood without someone to care for them,” John replied, pressing close to Sherlock in the jeep.

Sherlock draped an arm over his conquered soldier and glared imperiously at anyone who looked his way.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Once back at Baker Street Sherlock was greeted by a tearful Mrs. Hudson, who pressed a dozen kisses to his face before scolding him for faking his death and then kissing him again. Then she wrapped her arms around John and kissed him as well.

“Bless you for taking care of my Sherlock! Bless you!” She sobbed into his arms as John gave her a gentle hug. Sherlock could tell he was smitten with her already.

Upstairs they found Lestrade pacing the flat. He came at Sherlock in a rage, set to chin him, and John tackled him to the floor while Sherlock shouted at him.

“Take him _alive_ , Captain! That’s an order!” Sherlock barked, and John handily restrained Lestrade without even breaking a sweat.

“Sherlock, the fuck is this?!”

“My lover. He’s ex-military. Make nice, Lestrade.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll make nice. Let me up, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded to John who released Lestrade and stood back with a glare.

“Sorry,” Lestrade nodded, “He and I have history… not _that_ kind of history. The working kind.”

“You must be a patient man,” John grinned, and shook his hand as if he hadn’t just tackled him to the floor.

Lestrade responded with a firm handshake and gave Sherlock a look to which the consulting detective shrugged his shoulders and grinned.

“Well, a friend of Sherlock’s is… hell, I don’t know what a friend of Sherlock’s is. He’s never had one before.”

“Well, he’s got me now,” John shrugged, and then excused himself politely to see to Idgit.

“He’s scarred,” Sherlock whispered to Lestrade, “He needs gentle handling.”

“Something I’m used to,” Lestrade whispered back, “You want I should make friends with him?”

“That would be appreciated. He’ll need someone to complain to about me and go out drinking with.”

“Those I can do in spades.”

“I appreciate that, Lestrade.”

Lestrade gaped at him, and then grinned, “He’s good for you!”

“Yes. Yes he is.”

“What’s his name, then?”

“John. John Smith.”

“Right, of course it is. Well, John,” Lestrade said a bit louder, “There’s a game on this weekend. Want to hit up the pub with me? What team do you support?”

“Who’s playing?” John asked, perking up noticeably, “I’ve been out of the loop. You’ll have to catch me up. I don’t even know who’s who anymore.”

“Well, lucky for you I’m a walking stat sheet.”

Sherlock smiled and headed for his violin. It seemed Mycroft had been keeping it tuned and clean. He gently ran his fingers over the strings, twisted a few pegs to tune it, drew the bow across, settled it on against himself like a familiar lover, and began to play the Bach tune that John whistled most often. John stilled for a moment, closing his eyes and smiling in appreciation, and then continued his conversation with Lestrade while Sherlock gazed out the window onto Baker Street.

Home.


End file.
